The policeman at the checkpoint picked his nose with his left hand, scratched himself and spat wetly onto the road. His right hand held a Thums Up bottle and a lighted bidi between gnarled and calloused fingers. A bamboo lathi dangled from his right wrist by its leather loop. His jaws worked rhythmically around a quid of paan. A young constable regarded this revolting sight with nervous affection. His grizzled superior looked exactly like a hard-working Havildar should look. So many social engagements, so little time. The Havildar mournfully contemplated the colossal cabriole curve of his enormous pot belly. The starched khaki of his uniform blouse was strained to bursting point by his protruding paunch and softened in placed by dark patches of perspiration. He philosophically took a swig of his cola and a puff of his bidi. Gather ye roses while ye may. A policeman’s lot is a hard one; what with sundry speeding motorists, eve-teasers, auto-lifters, terrorists – and not to...